‘Darling, please.’ Mary abandoned me and hurried to take his arm. ‘Vicky will think you’re making fun of her.’

‘Oh, she’d never be mistaken about that,’ John said.

‘Never,’ I agreed, and let Perry lead me away.

Chapter Four

I

TERRORISTS, LOW WATER, or whatever, the change in schedule couldn’t have been more welcome. It would give me a chance to collect my wits and nurse my bruises. I had exaggerated a trifle; the one on my butt was only the size of a salad plate. As I lowered myself very gently into a hot tub filled with bubbles I tried to look on the bright side.

The flowerpot wasn’t a lethal weapon; even if it had landed square on the top of my head it wouldn’t have done lasting damage. As John had uunecessarily and condescendingly emphasized, it had been meant as a warning. Not that there were certain individuals on the ship who wanted me off the ship – I had already known that – or even that they were willing to use violence to achieve that end. It was a little more subtle: a reminder that I wasn’t safe anywhere on the boat, that ‘they’ had access even to my room. That was where I had been standing when the pot fell – under my own balcony.

Too damn many people had access to my room. I let my toes float up to the surface of the water and studied them pensively, remembering the agitated faces of the staff members who had been interrogated. Perry had insisted I report the incident immediately, and Hamid, the purser, had hauled the obvious suspects into his office.

Hamid was in charge of the domestic arrangements on the boat, the civilian equivalent of the captain. A slim, handsome man of indeterminate age, he radiated an air of calm competence. I had already wondered if he might be Burckhardt’s mysterious agent; he had keys to all the rooms and a perfect excuse to enter them. He could always claim he was checking up on his staff.

If he was in disguise, the disguise was excellent. In his crisp, tailored uniform, his hair greying attractively at the temples, he was the perfect model of an efficient hotel manager. And, I reminded myself, he wasn’t the only one who had a key to my room. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how many stewards there were. One replenished the liquor cabinet (he was a Copt, since handling alcoholic beverages might have offended Muslim sensibilities); another picked up and delivered laundry; a third cleaned and changed the beds. Hamid lined them up in a cringing row and questioned them in vehement Arabic. They protested their innocence volubly and passionately. The most obvious suspect was a kid named Ali, who was responsible for the overall cleaning, including the care of the flowers. He looked no more than eighteen – a graceful, smiling boy with the thick dark lashes many Egyptians have. He denied everything. Yes, he had watered the flowers and clipped the dead blooms; everything had been in perfect order when he left the room, he had made certain to replace the pots securely in the stand. He wrung his hands. Then he started to cry.